


The Only One in the World

by ladymac111



Series: The Only One in the World [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fem!Sherlock, Gen, Genderswap, Male-Female Friendship, Molly is a guy here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/ladymac111
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson meets a remarkable woman at Bart's, and before he knows it, they're flatmates and she's drawn him into her world of adventure.</p><p>Exploration of "what if Sherlock was a woman."</p><p>Rated Teen for mild sexual themes and language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Study in Pink - Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of this, and I've obviously borrowed extremely heavily from the existing material that Moffatt and Gatiss have given us, both the show and John's blog. We won't be seeing everything, but I want to explore how their world would be different if Sherlock were female.

John Watson liked to think of himself as an open-minded man, but he was slightly take aback when Mike led him into the lab at Bart's where they were greeted – for some meanings of “greeted”, anyway – by a slim woman with short, curly hair who was peering into a microscope. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine.”

Mike felt his pockets. “Sorry, left it in my coat.”

John wasn't sure what possessed him to volunteer, but he stepped forward. “Here. Use mine.”

The woman looked up at him with pale green eyes. “Oh, thank you.” She rose – she was taller than him, he noticed, and wearing low heels that emphasized the length of her legs. She took the phone and he had a moment to appreciate her look – very sleek and put-together, a white button-up tucked into a black pencil skirt that hit her at mid-knee – before she blindsided him. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“What?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. How did you --”

She handed the phone back to him, and returned to her microscope. “How do you feel about the violin?”

“The violin?”

“I play the violin when I'm thinking.” She was focused back on the sample under her microscope “Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. Ah, thank you, Mark.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur to John – looking back, he couldn't really recall much more than the shy pathologist who had handed Sherlock a cup of coffee before awkwardly letting himself out, and the woman's casual mention of a riding crop in the mortuary before she left the lab with a brisk “Afternoon!”

He looked at Mike as the soft tapping of her steps disappeared down the corridor. “Yeah, she's always like that.”

“What sort of name is Sherlock?”

“Family name, she said. Apparently her parents wanted a boy, but they got her instead.”

“And you thought … what, that she and I would make good flatmates?”

“She's looking for someone to share with, you're looking for a place, and I think you could probably stand her.”

John shook his head. “I don't know. Sharing with a woman?”

Mike chuckled. “She's not a typical woman, I'm sure you can tell. What have you got to lose?”

John was surprised to find his mind made up. “Nothing, I suppose.”

He blogged about it, that evening.

 

_I don't know how I'm meant to be writing this. I'm not a writer. Ella thought keeping a blog would help but it hasn't because nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened._

_I was walking in the park and I bumped into Mike Stamford. We were sort of mates when we were students. We got coffee and I mentioned that I wanted to move. He said he knew of someone in a similar situation. So we went to Barts and he introduced us._

_Except, he didn't. He didn't introduce us. The womman knew who I was. Somehow she knew everything about me. She knew I'd served in Afghanistan and she knew I'd been invalided. She said my wound was psychosomatic so she didn't get everything right but she even knew why I was there, despite the fact that Mike hadn't told her._

_I googled her when I got back to the flat and found a link to her website:_ _The Science of Deduction_ _._

_It's mad. I think she might be mad. She was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and she's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think she might be mad but she was also strangely likeable. She was charming. It really was all just a bit strange._

_So tomorrow, we're off to look at a flat. Me and the madwoman. Me and Sherlock Holmes._

  
Harry and Bill commented on it almost immediately, and John realized that their assumptions and teasing would probably be par for the course as far has his living with Sherlock was concerned. He thought about cancelling, about not seeing her again – but no, he was John H Watson, he had invaded Afghanistan, and assuming he could handle living with Sherlock, he could handle people making false assumptions about them.

It was the “handling living with Sherlock” bit that gave him pause.


	2. A Study in Pink - Part 2

The next day, John arrived at 221 Baker Street and had was reaching for the knocker when he heard a cab stop behind him, and turned to see his prospective flatmate exit and pay the cabbie. He extended his hand. “Hello, Ms Holmes.”

She took it with a small smile. “Sherlock, please.”

“This is a prime spot. Must be expensive.”

“The landlady, Mrs Hudson, owes me a favour. She's giving me a special rate.” Sherlock stuffed her hands into the pockets of her long coat and hunched her shoulders against the January cold. “A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

She said it so casually, John couldn't help but gawk a little. “You stopped her husband being executed?”

She looked at him, and although her face was neutral, there was a wicked glimmer in her eyes. “Oh no, I ensured it.” The door opened. “Mrs Hudson!”

“Sherlock!” The older woman pulled her into a hug, and they kissed one another's cheeks.

“Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock said, and John shook hands with Mrs Hudson.

“Please, come in.”

Sherlock bounded up the stairs to the first floor flat, and John hurried as best he could with the cane. She must have been waiting, because she opened the door with a flourish as soon as he was up. “Well? What do you think?”

John stepped into the flat and looked around as Sherlock pulled off her coat and scarf – he noticed that today she was wearing trousers and flat shoes, and was still a bit taller than him. He returned his attention to the sitting room – the place was a mess! There were piles of books everywhere, in addition to smaller collections of clutter on every available surface. He forced himself to see past it, to see the space, the fireplace, the busy floral wallpaper that looked like it might have been original Victorian. “This could be very nice,” he said, stepping farther in and noticing the kitchen, which was full of scientific glassware, which he did his best to ignore. “Very nice indeed.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, sounding relieved and putting her hands on her hips. “Yes, I thought so too.”

“As soon as we get this junk cleared out–”

“So I went ahead and moved in--”

They both stopped and looked at each other, and Sherlock's pleased expression immediately morphed into embarrassment. “Well, of course, I can tidy up a bit ...”

“Oh, no ...” John protested feebly, but Sherlock was a blur of motion, scooping up her things and moving them around, at one point plunging a pocketknife through a stack of post on the mantelpiece.

“There's another bedroom upstairs,” Mrs Hudson said, indicating the direction, “if you'll be needing two bedrooms.”

“Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms,” John said. “We're not … that is, we've only just met. It's just flatmates. We're not together.”

“I see,” Mrs Hudson said with a smile. “I wondered why Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything about having a young man when she asked about the flat.” She turned towards the kitchen. “Sherlock, the mess you've made!”

Sherlock shrugged a little as she shoved books onto a built-in shelf. John sighed, and lowered himself into one of the chairs by the fireplace. It was the first time he'd had this conversation, and he imagined there would be many in the future.

Mrs Hudson came in from the kitchen, looking at a newspaper. “What about these suicides, Sherlock? Seems like that's be right up your street. Three of them, just the same.”

Something outside caught Sherlock's attention, and she was at the window in a moment – John allowed himself to be amazed at her quick grace. “Four,” she corrected. “There's been another.”

Within moments there were heavy steps coming up the stairs, and a grey-haired man stepped into the flat. Sherlock spoke before he could. “What's different this time?”

“How do you know something's different?”

“Obviously. You wouldn't be coming to me otherwise.”

The man sighed. “You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yes."

"Well, this one did.”

Sherlock got a faraway look in her eyes, and her posture straightened as she brought her fingers together just below her chin.

“Are you coming?” the man asked.

“Not in a police car. I'll follow in a cab.”

The man seemed unhappy, but he went back down, and as soon as he was out of sight Sherlock bounced into the air and clapped her hands once in excitement. “Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides, and now a note. Ah, it's Christmas!”

She rushed around the flat, gathering her coat and scarf and then disappearing into the back where John assumed her bedroom was. Mrs Hudson offered John some tea, which he accepted gladly – it had been a whirlwind afternoon, and he'd only been there fifteen minutes.

“You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor.”

John turned to see Sherlock at the door, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves. “Yes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Any good?”

John lifted himself from the chair, ignoring the twinge in his leg. “Very good.”

She smiled in a way that gave him a chill and closed the space between them with a couple of steps. “Seen a a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.”

“Yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

He lifted his chin, trying to maximize his height. “Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

She studied him for a moment. “Want to see some more?”

“Oh, god, yes.” The words were out in a gust of air with no thought at all, and John immediately felt lighter as he followed Sherlock down the stairs, shouting an apology to Mrs Hudson and announcing their departure.

“What, both of you?”

Sherlock turned before she reached the front door. “Possible suicides, four of them? No point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!” She pressed a quick kiss to Mrs Hudson's cheek.

“Look at you, all happy. It's not ladylike.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Ladylike! The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!”


	3. A Study in Pink - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock solve their first crime together, and go on two non-dates.

The crime scene was far more interesting – and fun, if John was being completely honest with himself – than he had anticipated. Sherlock was absolutely brilliant, whirling around in her long coat, talking a mile a minute and generally making the police look like bumbling fools, while somehow, at the same time, making John feel like more than an observer, like he was actually a little piece of the machinery that made Sherlock Holmes tick.

So of course it hurt, when she disappeared and he was left on his own to hail a cab. But that hurt turned into fear and confusion and some other emotions he wasn't prepared to identify when he was abducted and taken to an underground car park where he had a very bizarre conversation with a man – Sherlock's _arch-enemy_ , if he was to be believed – who acted dangerous, but seemed to John to simply be a bit creepy. When Sherlock texted him – three times in a row – he almost forgave her for running off.

It seemed like Sergeant Donovan's warning had been fairly good, but the fact that Sherlock texted him at all – not to mention that she was actually asking for his presence – sort of undermined everyone's assessment that she didn't have friends. John was certainly beginning to feel like he was her friend. Or maybe he was projecting, because she was beginning to feel like _his_ friend. He liked her, he was genuinely awed by her brilliance, and he had just turned down an untold sum of money because he felt like he couldn't betray her – basically, in twenty-four hours of knowing her, she had become closer to him than anyone had in a long time. So he went back to Baker Street, which he was already beginning to think of as home.

The nicotine patches took him by surprise, and the pink lady's case even more so. He was fully out of surprise when she dragged him out the door to a nearby Italian restaurant, and couldn't find it in himself to protest very loudly when the proprietor referred to him as Sherlock's date – it made it easier to pretend that he was, which made him feel rather good about himself. Women like Sherlock didn't go on dates with guys like him, and he could see a few of the other patrons watching them with poorly disguised interest: _Get a load of the stunningly hot chick with the boring nobody_ _in the woolly jumper_.

He picked up his menu, and noticed that she had simply pushed hers away and turned her attention to the street outside. “Aren't you eating?”

“Never eat when I'm working.  You might as well order, we could be here a while.”

“Can't be good for you. And I hope you'll forgive me for saying it looks like an eating disorder.”

She frowned, but didn't look at him. “I'm not anorexic. Digestion slows me down and I need to be quick tonight.”

“All right, fine.” He looked at the menu, but he found he couldn't focus. His mind kept going back to the odd encounter in the car park, and he decided to return to that, see if she would volunteer any more information about the man who seemed dangerous to everyone but John. “People don't have arch-enemies.”

That seemed to catch her off guard. “I'm sorry?”

He smiled to himself. “In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. It doesn't happen.”

“Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull.”

“So, who did I meet?”

She ignored the question. “What do real people have, then, in their _real lives_?”

John wasn't expecting that. “Friends. People they know, people they like, people they don't like.” He swallowed. “Girlfriends, boyfriends.”

“Like I was saying, dull.”

“So you don't have a boyfriend?”

Her attention didn't stray from the window, and she spoke distractedly. “Boyfriend? No, not really my area.”

John was simultaneously disappointed and relieved – perhaps this flatmate situation would work out after all, though the notion of this being a date was officially dead. “Ah. Girlfriend, then? Which is fine, by the way.”

She glanced over. “I know it's fine.”

“So you haven't got a girlfriend.”

“No.”

“Right.” The silence stretched, and he started to feel uncomfortable. “You're unattached. Like me.”

She levelled a serious look at him, but there was vulnerability in her expression. “Please, John, don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Try to set me up. People are forever trying to get me together with someone, and I'm really not interested. They think having a man will make me settle down, or some such nonsense. I don't need a relationship. If you must put a label on it, I consider myself married to my work.”

John held up his hands. “It's all right, Sherlock, I'm not trying to set you up with anyone. If you're happy being single, that's great. It's all fine.”

“But you are attracted to me.”

“I – what?”

“You're a straight man, and you find me attractive. It's rather obvious.”

John couldn't help the blush that crept up his neck. “Well, yeah. You're gorgeous. Not my usual type, but no one could argue you're not attractive.”

“You'd be surprised.” She looked him up and down quickly, then returned her gaze to the street outside. “Your type … I'm too tall and skinny for you. Too boyish, maybe. You prefer women who are shorter than you, very feminine, with proportionately larger hips and breasts.”

He coughed awkwardly. “Well, I wouldn't say it like that.”

“How would you say it?”

“Well ...” He sighed. “Okay, like that.”

“Oh, a cab's stopped. No, no, don't stare.”

“You're staring.”

“We can't _both_ stare.”

And with that they were off, tearing through darkened alleys. John found himself struggling to keep up with Sherlock, who was much faster than she looked – apparently she kept a very fit body hidden under the immaculately tailored clothing. By the time they had caught the cab, and then made a mad dash back to their own front door, John was gasping for breath, which wasn't helped by the fact that they both found themselves giggling as they came down from the mad adrenaline high. A part of John was demanding that he grab Sherlock and kiss her, but luckily the larger part pushed it aside and labelled it A Terrible Idea – one does not snog one's brand-new flatmate, no matter how exciting an adventure one has just enjoyed.

Of course, all thoughts of kissing were forgotten immediately when they went upstairs into the middle of a fake drugs bust. DI Lestrade's pronouncement that “it stops being fake if we find anything” actually made John a bit nervous, and the nervousness began to darken into horror when Sherlock stared him down and all but confirmed that she used drugs. “No … you?”

She wrinkled her nose in a _you-don't-know-me_ expression. “Shut up!”

John wasn't sure what to make of that, but luckily it wasn't on his mind for long since Sherlock quickly returned her mind to the case, the puzzle once again consuming her and drawing the rest of them in as well. They got a location on the pink lady's phone, Sherlock went out for some air … and John could sense that something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on what. But somehow, he knew that Sherlock was in danger, and that he desperately needed to find her.

Half an hour later, he found himself scurrying out of the college building, making himself as inconspicuous as possible as the police began to arrive, and hoping to whatever god would listen that the bullet wouldn't be able to be traced to his gun. Eventually he calmed down enough to approach with casual interest, and convinced Sergeant Donovan to fill him in on the details, which contained one particularly memorable line that John filed away to sort out later – “Apparently, that bitch tortured him – actually _tortured_ him – while he was dying on the floor. Said so herself, stepped on his shoulder, trying to get information. I'm not convinced she was actually expecting him to talk. Sociopath, yeah?”

That was about all John could take, so he excused himself politely, and put himself in sight of where Sherlock was sitting on the back of an ambulance and complaining to Lestrade about the orange blanket over her shoulders. He couldn't hear their conversation well from where he was standing, but he gathered they were discussing the shooter when Sherlock happened to look in his direction. They locked eyes briefly; John looked away with as much nonchalance as he could muster, and he heard Sherlock making transparent excuses before finally coming over to him. She hugged the blanket a bit tighter around her shoulders, still putting on a show. “Good shot,” she said softly.

“Yes, it must have been,” John agreed. “Sergeant Donovan was filling me in on the details. Dreadful business.”

“You all right?” Sherlock asked. “You have just killed a man.”

“Yes --” It slipped out before he could stop himself. Sherlock caught his eye, and he couldn't help but smile back. “I have, haven't I? But he wasn't a very nice man.”

They turned and began to walk away from the scene, still chatting, and accidentally got a bit too loud as Donovan went past. “Sorry!” Sherlock said, her voice a bit high and giddy. “Just a little hysterical, don't mind me.”

John couldn't help but smirk at that, but then he spotted the creepy man from the car park, Sherlock's so-called arch-enemy. Sherlock bristled, but it was only moments before the word _Mummy_ came up and the man was introduced as her older brother Mycroft, and suddenly everything made sense. John almost laughed as they finally turned away from him.

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked.

He smiled at her. “Starving. And you'll eat, now that the case is over?”

She grinned back. “I think you'll be surprised, Doctor Watson. I know a great Chinese place, stays open until two. I hope you like dim sum; I plan to order one of everything, which is a bit much for one person.”

“Love it. Good choice for a second date.”

She chuckled. “Nice try.”


	4. Life Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock settle into one another's lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologize in advance for my (over)use of parentheses. (I'm not sorry.)

It didn't take long for John to settle into his new life with Sherlock. Sharing a flat with her was difficult, to be sure, but he had expected that. She was messier than any of the men he had lived with, which was saying something – though at least her messes existed in the name of science (allegedly), and not just because she was too lazy to pick up her sweaty clothes. He wasn't even certain she _had_ sweaty clothes, since everything that wasn't on her body was in her bedroom, where John never ventured. She was very meticulous about her appearance, and most of the time she was dressed as crisply as she had been the day they met, always wearing a button-up blouse, usually with skinny-leg trousers and a suit jacket. Sometimes – too rarely for John's taste – she wore the knee-length skirt from the day they had met. Normally he was fairly able to not think too much about her appearance, and ignore the fact that his mad flatmate was actually a woman underneath her mercurial moods, insane brilliance, and very questionable experiments.

But when she wore the skirt – which she always paired with heels, and often with lipstick – he couldn't tear his eyes off her. Something about it tugged at deep parts of his psyche, made him want to possess her and never let anyone else see her as he did, know her as he did. Sometimes she would stand right beside him on those days, usually when they were out on a case, practically touching him through the thick fabric of their coats. Sometimes she would stand in front of him, face to … well, neck. With the heels she was a good four or five inches taller than him, and the effect made him want to fall to his knees in awe. He wondered if she knew the effect she had on him. (Of course she did, she was Sherlock Holmes, the most observant person in the world.)

Some days, though, he remembered their first meeting and wished that playing the violin and being silent were actually the worst things about her. In between cases, she got Bored, and when she was Bored, everyone around her suffered. Most notably the wall, on one memorable occasion – John had no idea how she'd found his gun, but he made sure to hide it even better.

The first indication that she was Bored was usually that she was in her room, presumably sleeping, when John would come down in the morning. She typically appeared after he made tea, wordlessly meandering through the kitchen to the sitting room. Sometimes he brought her a cup; she never touched it. On these days (because it lasted the entire day – often more than one consecutively), she seemed to forget how to tame her hair, and dressed as differently from her usual as it was possible to be. At first, when the weather was cooler, she would appear wearing plaid pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt under a dressing gown (she favoured the blue one when she was Bored – the red tartan was for Experimenting).

Then one humid day in June, she emerged from her room wearing blue shorts and tight white vest with no bra, and as much as John hated himself for it, he stared at her breasts as she stalked past him (small but perky even though she was thirty-five; the shirt was thin enough for him to see the pink of her nipples against her milky white skin). Then he let himself stare at her round bum and obscenely long legs as her back turned. She seemed not to notice, and John had to think very hard about the disembodied fingers in the fridge before he was able to stand up and bring her a cup of tea that he knew she wouldn't drink.

He very nearly blogged about it, but deleted the post instead. No reason to share that tidbit with the Internet. There were some things that were between them alone.

The cases, though, were far too brilliant to keep to themselves, and those got blogged. Following the serial-suicide cabbie, there was another serial killer case that turned out to be the work of Chinese smugglers, and also had the unfortunate timing to coincide with John's new job at a local surgery and his efforts to charm his new boss into being his girlfriend as well. Sarah didn't seem particularly perturbed by Sherlock when they met, and she handled the kidnapping thing remarkably well, though her interest in him cooled quite a bit after that. He held out hope for a while, but by the third morning he woke up on her couch with his injured shoulder threatening actual pain, he conceded that Sarah had officially become Just A Friend, albeit a very generous one who let him stay over when Sherlock was being particularly insufferable.

Then there was the return of Moriarty, who strung Sherlock along on what amounted to a very morbid scavenger hunt that ultimately culminated in John being strapped to a bomb. Afterwards, he was amazed that he'd had the presence of mind to joke about Sherlock ripping his clothes off. A little corner of his ego felt wounded that a woman had rescued him, but the rest of him told it to shut up, it wasn't _a woman_ who had rescued him, it was Sherlock. That evening showed him how much she really cared about him, and it was the first time that John wondered if he might be in love with her.

He didn't stay over at Sarah's again after that, though he did return to the dating scene, to the extent that he could. Unfortunately, none of the other women he dated (he hesitated to refer to them as his girlfriends) were very understanding of his situation with Sherlock. “By the way, don't be surprised, but my flatmate is a woman” usually spelled the beginning of the end. Even when it didn't, none of his relationships lasted very long after they met the flatmate in question.

 

Sherlock smacked the newspaper on the table, and John looked up with a start to see her stalk into the living room, blue dressing gown billowing dramatically behind her, and throw herself on the couch.

“Tabloids?” he said casually.

“Tabloids!” she snarled. “That damn belly button case has gone and made us famous, apparently.”

“What's so bad about that? Means we'll get more business, which means we'll actually be able to pay those bills instead of stabbing them.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, fine, the business side is good. But why do they always insist on making everything personal? My private life doesn't matter.”

“That's what tabloids do, though, isn't it?”

“Read beyond the headline, John.”

He picked up the paper with a sigh and began to skim the column. “Oh.” He re-read the paragraph. “I see.”

“I thought you might. Why in the world are they calling you my boyfriend?”

“Really, Sherlock? Do you know how rare our situation is? Ignoring the whole detective thing. Men and women are never just friends who share a flat.”

“And if I were a man? What then?”

“Then they'd assume we were gay.”

She barked a mirthless laugh. “It's always about sex with these people.”

“Oh, so sex isn't important to you?” It slipped out before John could stop himself – back when he had first moved in, he had promised himself that sex was the one topic he would never bring up with Sherlock, and so far, he had stuck steadfastly to it.

“No, it isn't. It just makes things messy.”

Pandora's Box was already open, so John decided to just go for it. “Have you ever had a relationship, then?”

“Don't beat around the bush, John. I've had sex. I found it a waste of time and energy. I don't see why you go to such effort with your girlfriends.”

“You don't get it, do you?” He crossed to the couch and perched on the arm rest by her feet. “It's not just about sex. It's about having an emotional connection with another person. That has to be there for the sex to really be good, to be worthwhile. It's best when it's an expression of emotion rather than an animal instinct.”

She rolled over, twisting in her dressing gown, and looked at him carefully. “The latest one dumped you last night.”

John scowled. “What of it?”

“It's because of me, isn't it? They feel threatened because you live with a woman, and they think you're really in love with _me_ , that you'll cheat with me.” She put on a smug smile and raised her hands to her chin. “Am I wrong?”

John sighed and slid down onto the couch, pushing her feet out of the way. “To be fully candid, Sherlock, I'm not sure _they're_ wrong.”

Her eyes widened, and there was a long pause. “Don't.”

“No, please, let me be honest. You're my best friend, as maddening as you are. I'd do anything for you. Sometimes I feel like I already have. You're like a sister, but more.” He considered for a moment. “Well, obviously not _my_ sister. But do you understand what I'm saying? My relationships don't fail because they're afraid I'm in love with you. They fail because I _am_ in love with you, even though we don't have that sort of relationship.”

“We _can't_ have that sort of relationship, John. I won't ruin what we have – your friendship is one of the best things that's ever happened to me. Even Mycroft's approval won't make me end this. You're what I always hoped a brother could be and you're an idiot if you think I would risk that over something as trivial as sex.”

John's heart sank. “I'm not asking --”

“But you are. And my answer is no.” She rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. “The tabloids can say what they like. Now either find me a case or a cigarette.”

He dropped the paper on her hip and stood up. “Page fifteen. Must be at least a four.”

 

Three days later, John was trudging across a muddy field with a laptop that showed Sherlock looking very bored and wearing nothing but a bed sheet and a mop of dark curls that was halfway between “too bored for hygiene” and “immaculately put together”; he supposed this is how she looked when she first woke up in the mornings. “You do realize this is a tiny bit humiliating.”

She yawned and took a sip of her tea. “I'm fine.”

“I didn't mean for you. And this is definitely not helping the we're-not-a-couple thing. I'd really rather the world didn't know that you are completely lacking in modesty when it's just us at home.”

“That doesn't matter. Show me the hiker.”

“Why aren't you here, anyway?”

She gave him her best annoyed eye-roll. “This is a six, at most. We agreed there's no point in me leaving the flat for anything less than a seven.”

“This is at least an eight! And when did we agree that?”

“Yesterday. Show me the river.”

John turned around, aiming the webcam. “I wasn't even at home yesterday, I was in Dublin.”

“It's hardly my fault you weren't listening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to LibreOffice, this chapter has 1895 words. (Which is why I cut it off here ... A Scandal in Belgravia is coming up.)


	5. A Scandal in Belgravia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock matches wits with Irene Adler, and everyone is more confused than when it all began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice that there's a fair bit of copy-pasta from John's blog. Obviously that bit is not my work :)

The next several hours sent John on an emotional roller coaster. Confusion, curiosity, humour, embarrassment – and that was even before the case was presented. (He'd been horrified but unsurprised to see that Sherlock was, in fact, _completely_ naked under her sheet, and hoped desperately that the Queen wasn't about to round the corner and get an eyeful of Sherlock's perky bosom.)

After a quick stop at Baker Street where Sherlock attempted and failed to change out of The Skirt, they were off to Irene Adler's, where John first got to punch Sherlock in the face (something he'd been secretly dying to do for months – woman or not, Sherlock deserved it), and then saw perfect breasts for the second time in one day.

Irene was a puzzle, and Sherlock's reaction to her even more so. John had suspected she might be more interested in other women than in men, but he had always thought she was above such things as physical attraction, and especially _flirting_ , but Irene seemed to have shaken Sherlock fairly thoroughly – and that was before she drugged her and reclaimed the camera phone.

About an hour after they finally got back to the flat, John heard Sherlock calling for him. It was a bit sooner than he might have expected – she apparently handled drugs fairly well, which worried him a bit, but but he pushed it out of his mind as he poked his head into her bedroom, where she was lifting herself from the floor. “Where is she?” Sherlock demanded, trying to rise to her feet.

“Oh, you mean Irene Adler? Got away before the police came. Out the window.”

“No, she was here, she ...” Sherlock dropped sideways, and started to crawl under her bed.

John rolled his eyes. “She wasn't _here_ , Sherlock.” He lifted her by the arm and guided her back into her bed, and tried very hard not to notice that the buttons on her shirt were open far enough to reveal the lace on the edge of the cup of her bra. And even though he certainly did _not_ notice his flatmate's lacy underwear, he was surprised that she owned an article of clothing that was so obviously decorative, so different from the crisp utilitarian style she showed on the outside.

He pulled the duvet over her. “Just get some sleep. You'll be fine.”

“Of course I'll be fine,” she slurred into the pillow. “I am fine.”

He patted her shoulder. “Yes, you're great. I'll be right out here, if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?”

John sighed. “No reason at all.” He shut the door, leaving Sherlock alone in her sanctuary. He felt a little bit like he had betrayed her today, by going in there and putting her to bed (twice, now). But they were best friends, weren't they? And friends took care of each other, so whether Sherlock liked it or not, John was going to do just that. The problem was, now that Irene Adler was in the picture, he wasn't sure exactly how to make it happen.

 

Their Christmas party was a clusterfuck, in John's opinion. It had started out nice enough, with Sherlock being pleasant and indulging everyone by playing Christmas songs (which he knew she hated) and actually not talking about any of her cases. She was even pleasant to Jeanette, by Sherlock's standards, at least. Jeanette undoubtedly saw it differently. But then Mark arrived, and that was when things started going to shit.

John actually liked Mark, rather a lot, in fact. He was a quiet pathologist at Bart's, but he was very good at his job and very, very eager to make people happy. He also had an enormous crush on Sherlock, which he had apparently been nursing for quite some time. John couldn't help but admire the man's tenacity, even though he was certain that nothing would ever come of it. To say that Sherlock treated him like dirt was sadly accurate – she paid him extremely little attention, except on the occasions when she found him useful (which was mostly when she wanted to acquire body parts on which to experiment).

As soon as he came in and Sherlock started doing her deduction thing, John knew where it was going and tried to step in and spare the man. “Take a day off ...”

“Oh, please!” she said. “Surely it's obvious!” And she rattled off a list of details: his new tie; the way his hair was styled more neatly than usual; the obviously new aftershave that had clearly been bought to impress a woman, though it didn't complement his body chemistry; the precisely-wrapped gift on the top of the bag that matched his –

She stopped abruptly, and everyone knew. Mark looked like he might be on the verge of tears, but he blinked them back and even managed to imbue a little venom into his words. “Why do you have to be such a bitch? You say such awful things ...”

Sherlock actually looked shamed, which was something John had never seen on her before. Hesitantly she stepped to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry. Forgive me.” He met her eyes, and she smiled a little. “Merry Christmas, Mark Hooper.”

She pressed a chaste kiss to the air beside his cheek, and John couldn't have imagined a worse possible moment for Irene's awful text-alert moan to sound.

Things happened rather quickly after that. Everyone was scandalized by the sound, Sherlock found a package on the mantelpiece that neither of them had noticed previously, she shut herself into her room, and the party eventually dispersed rather awkwardly while Sherlock was hiding and John couldn't help worrying about what he'd overheard her telling Mycroft about Irene.

Hours later, after Jeanette had left in a huff (“Don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!”) and John and Mrs Hudson had thoroughly searched the flat (which turned up nothing; either Sherlock was _very_ good or Mycroft was _very_ paranoid), the woman herself returned, looking rather like a lost child.

“Hello,” John offered.

Her eyes landed on him but didn't focus, and she turned towards her room. “I hope you left my pants the way you found them.”

John blushed a little and reached for his drink as Sherlock disappeared silently. As comfortable as they had become with one another in the past year, these “danger night” checks always left him feeling as though he'd invaded her privacy in a particularly egregious way, even when it was technically Mrs Hudson who went through her underwear.

But if Mycroft was to be believed – and John felt like that was generally a good idea – the checks were necessary if they wanted to keep the Sherlock they knew. John hated it, but part of loving Sherlock meant acknowledging that she was an addict, and doing what was necessary to keep her safe from her own demons.

 

_25th December  
Christmas_

_I should be out tonight with Jeanette but things, as ever, haven't gone to plan._

_What Christmas isn't complete without your guests being humiliated, your girlfriend dumping you and a woman being murdered._

_Sherlock was her usual tetchy self, managing to make Christmas all about her but I can't bring myself to complain about her too much. Not after the death._

_Irene Adler. She's gone and Sherlock won't dare admit it but she's devastated. She can't show it and I don't think she understands what she's feeling. Sometimes she's so cut off from everything, so cold, so lacking in emotion that when she does feel something... well I think it's the one thing on this planet she'll never quite get._

 

_31st December  
Happy New Year_

_Just a quick update before we go into 2012. It's been a bit of a day. I was taken to Battersea Power Station where I met Irene Adler. She's still alive. Dead or alive, it's all just a game to her. At first, she refused to let Sherlock know she hadn't died but I insisted. I think that was the right thing to do. Either way, she's messing with her head. It didn't really matter though as, of course, she'd followed me._

_When I got back to Baker Street... Mrs H. She'd been attacked. I've never seen her like that and it struck me again just how close to home this all this. People know where we live. People know who our friends are. But, oh Mrs H, she's so brave. They'd done horrible things to her but she had what they were looking for. She'd not given it up. The things we do for Sherlock Holmes, eh?_

_Sherlock won't talk about her, obviously. And my plans for New Years have had to be cancelled of course. So it's going to be a glass of scotch and a silent flatmate._

_Happy New Year._

 

_12th March  
The Woman_

_I can't say much about the actual case because of the Official Secrets Act but the country was nearly brought to its knees by one person - Irene Adler. She's now under a witness protection scheme so we'll not be seeing her again. And Sherlock seems fine with that._

_Of course, she isn't fine with it, not really. But she'll get there._

John hit “post” reluctantly. The whole thing with Irene had left them both shaken and confused, and John felt horrible lying to her about Irene's death. But it was for the best, wasn't it? Where romantic relationships were concerned – any relationships, if he was being brutally honest – Sherlock was very much still a little girl: uncertain, inexperienced, and easily overwhelmed.

John wasn't sure what to make of Sherlock's infatuation with Irene, even after so many months of it. Was it romantic? Was it sexual? Or maybe Sherlock had simply been so refreshed to find another woman who was her intellectual equal that she had let the situation get out of hand, and the two women fighting to make their way in a male-dominated world had torn each other apart in the process.

A delicate _ping_ alerted John that he had a new email – a comment on the blog.

_Sherlock Holmes said:  
Really, John, what's the point in this post? If you can't detail what happened in a case because of some ridiculous law thing then why bother?_

He glanced up – Sherlock was slouched down into the couch in a way that John couldn't imagine was comfortable, and she was completely engrossed in whatever she was doing on her laptop.

John shook his head with a little smile as he typed his response. They did this fairly frequently, and he always found it fun.

When he'd run into Mycroft earlier, he'd mentioned how Sherlock had taken to referring to Irene as The Woman at the end, not even deigning to use her name. Mycroft's response had caught him by surprise and given him quite a bit of food for thought. Was it perhaps a salute? Irene was the one woman who mattered? But what did that say about Sherlock's attitude towards her own gender? John thought about the other women in Sherlock's life – aside from Mrs Hudson, the people she voluntarily spent time with were men. John, Greg, Mike, Mark, and a few other doctors and police officers who she had deemed “not complete idiots.”

Had Sherlock ever had girlfriends? He tried to picture her having a slumber party, painting fingernails, braiding hair. The image was so ridiculous he almost laughed out loud. No, she was clearly much more comfortable with men. Even her manner of dress said so: her clothing was cut to fit her female body, but it was all traditional men's style. (Except for the skirt and that one lacy bra she owned – those two items made the whole thing even more complicated so he elected to ignore them.) He tried to picture her as a man; she would be a bit taller, broad-shouldered, with the same high cheekbones and piercing ice-coloured eyes, and legs for miles. What did it mean that this image came so much more easily than the girly one?

He heard Sherlock's email alert sound, and looked over at her again; her brow was furrowed in consternation as she read and responded to his comment.

John grinned. Some things didn't change, and for that, he was grateful. Sherlock was still Sherlock, his maddening flatmate and friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm marking this as complete for now. I don't have plans (or even ideas) for further chapters, but if they come to me, I'll post them.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave me a comment if you enjoyed it. Or even if you didn't.
> 
> Any scenes you'd like to see this version of Sherlock do? I imagine the fellows who operate the Cross Keys in Grimpen would see their relationship differently, but I don't have any specifics in mind.

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of art I did, Sherlock and John at a crime scene: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcd6f1zo811qf5e69o1_500.jpg


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